Go, mind your horses in the stable,
You ne’er shall sit with me at table;
For your own words do plainly prove
You’ve nothing more than cupboard love
So I beg you will your suit decline,
For you ne’er shall be my Valentine.
FROM A COBBLER.
Whenever I’m mending a shoe,
Ev’ry thing in my stall that I view,
To my doating remembrance brings you,